


Those Thousand Words

by fushifantasy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, always getting worked up over nothing, catch me blithely ignoring any and all problems currently present, lightly seasoned with angst because you know how these two are, mentions of Daisira but that's about it, particularly as this is set in my happy post-canon fairyland where everything turns out fine, seriously this is sappy and i don't know where it came from but it wouldn't go away so here we are, they'll get there in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 22:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19755493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fushifantasy/pseuds/fushifantasy
Summary: It was a stupid, selfish thought. Jon cared for him, Martin knew. Loved him, he had said (well, stammered). Leaned against his shoulder when they drank tea on the sofa, and dutifully read his terrible poetry, and held tightly to his hand when he took it—even if he never seemed to quite meet Martin’s eyes as he did. Jon was here, and they were together, and he couldn’t—he wouldn’t ask for anything more than that.





	Those Thousand Words

Martin opened the door gently as he stepped out of the bedroom. Jon had already been up when he’d awoken, and if he was working, Martin didn’t want to break his concentration.

The sight of the table confirmed that Jon was on his laptop, and indeed focused on it so completely that he hadn’t noticed Martin enter. But he wasn’t—he _couldn’t_ have been working, for the expression he wore was soft, and sweet, and...enraptured. Jon had never looked at a statement like _that_ . In fact, Martin realized, he had never seen Jon gaze at _anything_ with such warmth.

Including him.

It was a stupid, selfish thought. Jon cared for him, Martin knew. _Loved_ him, he had said (well, stammered). Leaned against his shoulder when they drank tea on the sofa, and dutifully read his terrible poetry, and held tightly to his hand when he took it—even if he never seemed to quite meet Martin’s eyes as he did. Jon was _here_ , and they were _together_ , and he couldn’t—he _wouldn’t_ ask for anything more than that. 

Yet his stomach still twisted unpleasantly as a small smile rose to Jon’s lips, his hands at the keyboard, eyes still focused on whatever was making him look like—like _that._

“Jon?”

He hadn’t meant to say anything, not really, let alone so...squeakily, but he couldn’t help it. He hunched in on himself, one hand coming up to grasp the opposite elbow—an old nervous habit. Jon jumped, his face flushing rapidly as his gaze snapped up.

“Martin! I...er,” Jon cleared his throat, eyes wide, “I didn’t know that you were up.”

“Sorry if I startled you,” Martin said, determined to recover his composure before Jon noticed. Still, he was unable to stop himself asking—“What were you looking at?”

“It’s, ah—” Jon hesitated, taking a sudden and keen interest in the water glass at his elbow, “Daisy sent me the wedding photos.”

“Oh?” That went a way toward explaining it, at least. Jon had remained close with Daisy and Basira even when they weren’t working to stop the end of the world. And it _had_ been a lovely wedding—cozy and relaxed, the happy couple beautiful in their complementary tuxedo-dresses, the music and drinks providing enough impetus for even _Jon_ to dance.

Martin had been the one to catch the bouquet, and it had been—nice. In that moment, and just for that moment, he had given himself permission to bask in how very _alright_ it all was, to appreciate how Jon was near and safe and _his_ , to really feel the flutter of his heart in his chest. He had turned to Jon and smiled at him, and pretended not to notice how panicked Jon had looked in that instant before he smiled back.

Jon was under no obligation to marry him, of course. He didn’t even know if Jon wanted to _get_ married, let alone to him. He had been on the point of asking so many times, just a casual inquiry, but—something in him _couldn’t_. Because he was afraid. Because he was completely, irrationally petrified that Jon might say _no_. 

It didn’t make sense, even to him. He was perfectly content the way things were. He was _happy_ , as long as Jon was happy, and he—well, he _thought_ that Jon was happy. That was enough. He didn’t expect—had never needed Jon to be as stupidly, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love as he was.

But then something on the screen caught Jon’s eye, and even as he hastened to type—whatever it was—his face softened again, and that damn smile was back, and Martin was so envious that he couldn’t stand it.

“Must be one hell of a picture,” he said with as much nonchalance as he could muster, striding across to where Jon sat. He leaned one arm on the back of the chair and bent over to look. Jon jumped again, uttering the beginnings of some sort of protest, but gave up almost immediately and slumped back in his chair.

It was too late, anyway. It was— This was—

Oh. _Oh._

On the screen, Martin saw, was—him. Wearing his best suit and cradling the bouquet in both hands, smiling face framed by hair slightly disheveled from the dancing. It must have been taken in the exact instant that he had turned to Jon, before his fears had come crashing in on him.

His heart skipped a beat. Or two, or... Hard to say, really.

Feeling his entire being flooding with warmth, he finally glanced over—only to find that Jon had buried his face in his hands. Well. That came as something of a relief, as he could _also_ feel himself tearing up.

Casting about for something that might help get his emotions under control, he looked back at the screen, and noticed that the window in the corner was blinking. It read:

_daisy ❁ 9:04 a.m._

don’t suppose you’ll be wanting a copy of this one?

_daisy ❁ 9:06 a.m._

you’re not getting it unless you ask

_jsims 9:07 a.m._

...Fine. Maybe I do.

_daisy ❁ 9:08 a.m._

well i won’t twist your arm

_jsims 9:08 a.m._

DAISY

_daisy ❁ 9:09 a.m._

yeah, already ordered it. dork

Martin felt a smile overtaking him. He again looked to Jon, who was now peeking at him through his fingers, and groaned when he made eye contact. Still leaning on the chair, he took one of Jon’s wrists and gently tugged at it.

“Stop hiding and kiss me, you sap,” he said—grinning like an idiot now, he was sure.

Jon gave one of his faux long-suffering sighs as he brought his free hand up to Martin’s cheek, but in the instant that their lips met, Martin could tell that he was smiling, too. It was soft, and _sweet_ , and—yeah. Come to think of it, Jon had always kissed him as if he had something to say. Something that never quite got through in words.

He pulled back, though not far, feeling a bit as if he might faint at any moment—though judging by the color of Jon’s face, he wasn’t the only one.

“You _like_ me.” He had meant it to sound teasing, but found that he couldn’t entirely suppress the note of awe to it.

Of course, Jon scoffed at that, and Martin was quite sure that he was about to deny it. But he didn’t. Instead, he met his gaze, and held it.

“Yes, Martin, I should think that was obvious.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...
> 
> How long has Jon had that ring in his coat pocket, waiting for the right moment and then repeatedly chickening out because...well, fine, he's embarrassed, but anyway, the moment is so nice, and he wouldn't want to ruin it when he inevitably messes this up, and—
> 
> A while. It's been a while.


End file.
